


Lead the Way

by breathtaken



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e05 XIII., Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The moment, all the more painful in its sweetness, would pass. Thomas would squeeze his shoulder once and then let him go, turning back to business, and that would be that.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Except that what Thomas actually did was put his other hand on James’ shoulder, and look at him wordlessly for a long moment, at once both uncertain and determined – before moving closer, far closer than he should ever have had cause to, and leaning in.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>James suddenly understood a lot more than he had before.</i>
</p><p>What happened after the dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadowValkyrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie/gifts).



> Hello, new fandom! Hello, new tragic OT3 and a canon that asks as many questions as it answers. Don't mind if I do! 
> 
> For [ShadowValkyrie](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie), my favourite enabler.

“Did you just ask my father,” Thomas asked, his disbelief plain in his voice, “to leave his own house?”

James didn’t look at him. He didn’t think he could, after what he’d just done.

He wasn’t sure if Thomas’ next words were intended for his benefit or for Miranda’s, or purely to help him come to terms himself with what had just happened and what Lord Hamilton’s response would undoubtedly be, but he was saying nothing James didn’t already know. It was no reproach, merely a statement of fact; but there was no avoiding the fact that with his angry and ill-considered words just minutes before, James had destroyed any fragile hope of Thomas’ proposal surviving the evening unscathed.

Admiral Hennessey had been right about him, hadn’t he? The evidence was all there: his rage was a dark mirror of Thomas’ selfless righteousness, rage that once, twice, three times now he had indulged at a cost to his name and standing, even revelled in. The truth was that it felt _good,_ after a lifetime of tact and politicking and turning the other cheek when faced with provocation – of having to be twice the man of his detractors to be thought of half the worth – and he wondered when and how he had lost control of himself quite so thoroughly.

No; he knew. The reason was twofold, both of them still sitting at the dinner table, waiting for him to explain himself.

In just a few short months he had come to care for them both more than he had ever cared for anyone, and now _this –_

Thomas’ voice finally broke through his thoughts:

“And now you’re in the line of fire.”

_Of course._

“People can say what they like about you. But you’re a good man. More people should say that.” He pushed the words out through a tight throat, choked with relief and _grief_ and fierce, defiant pride. “And someone should be willing to defend it.”

Suddenly it was clear: Thomas had never expected James’ support, not when it meant opposing his father. James had hardly been able to think beyond the shock of him proposing the pardons at _all_ , far too busy wrestling with what on earth he would say when the Earl – inevitably – called upon him. Listening to father and son trading barbs up and down the table and feeling his love for his friend straining at the bonds of duty, propriety and plain good sense, trying not to acknowledge just how inadequate those bonds had become at restraining –

In the silence his words left behind, he wasn’t quite sure what he had wanted more: for Thomas to hear them, or just to be able to say them.

He looked over at the sound of Thomas rising from his chair, the swish of fabric as he moved, the muffled tread of his shoes on the Persian rug. He looked up into his face, seeing understanding and quiet forgiveness there; swallowed as a hand was laid on his shoulder, forcing an attempt at a smile, though he wasn’t sure he would ever quite forgive himself.

The moment, all the more painful in its sweetness, would pass. Thomas would squeeze his shoulder once and then let him go, turning back to business, and that would be that.

Except that what Thomas actually did was put his other hand on James’ shoulder, and look at him wordlessly for a long moment, at once both uncertain and determined – before moving closer, far closer than he should ever have had cause to, and leaning in.

James suddenly understood a lot more than he had before.

The heights of his own admiration; the depths of his fury. His… hunger, not for his closest friend’s wife, nor even for the relationship they shared with each other. Not quite.

Silently reeling, he pulled back; Thomas immediately stopped his advancement. Waiting, James realised, for him to do something, say something. To call him out, perhaps, or walk away.

Yet all he could do was stand rooted to the spot, utterly helpless for the first time since he was a boy. Thinking inescapably of the few times he had suspected that Thomas’ feelings for him might be more than acceptable – and if he decided to press the matter, just how ill a man like James could afford such a thing; and now that it was finally happening, with all they had shared, just how little that actually seemed to matter.

For Thomas, he would do anything. Fight for him, kill for him; build empires for him, or tear them apart.

Nobody had ever looked at him the way Thomas was looking at him now.

When Thomas moved again, James did too.

Thomas was a little taller than him, broad beneath his hands, clean-shaven. He kissed softly and tenderly, as if afraid James would change his mind, as if James were capable of thinking at all and could have done anything more than clutch at his coat, run his fingers over the fine velvet and _feel._ Thomas’ hands were warm where they came up to cup his jaw, holding him in place as he pulled carefully back, eyes alight.

“ _James._ ”

He said it with such weight, like a prayer, like an entreaty.

“Thomas,” James replied, unable to help the ridiculous smile creeping across his face, and watching it mirrored in the man before him, possibly the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. “Thomas.”

The clock chimed the quarter-hour, jolting them out of their reverie; and immediately James became horribly aware of their position, embracing each other in the middle of the dining room where any of the servants could walk in.

That the wife of the man he’d just kissed still sat at the table, watching them silently.

“Miranda.”

Whatever shame James had felt before was dwarfed by this. By the sheer magnitude of the impropriety he’d just committed, turning his insides to ice even though it was clear in the way those dark eyes regarded him unflinchingly that she was not surprised. She had expected this, no doubt, he wondered for just how long.

He tried again. “Forgive me. I –”

She waved his attempts carelessly away. “I thought we might retire.” Her expression was arch, but with something deeper behind it, something hungrier – _she_ _means the three of us together,_ James thought faintly, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as he looked reflexively back at Thomas, drawn like a compass needle to north.

Thomas, who wasn’t at all surprised – _they planned this, of course, they must have –_ just reached for James’ hand, his grip warm and certain. “Will you? Come with us?”

“Yes,” he found himself saying, without hesitation.

“Good,” Miranda said, pushing back her chair. She walked around the table to take James’ other hand and tugged him toward her for a kiss, all of them still holding hands, Thomas and Miranda’s other arms encircling James’ waist and holding him fast between them.

And as they kissed, a tightness eased in James’ chest that had been present ever since his affair with Miranda began. Even though she had assured him many times that Thomas knew they were lovers and truly did not mind, even when Thomas had personally assured him of the same thing, James had struggled to swallow his friend’s simple acknowledgement that if James made Miranda happy then he was happy for both of them, as if convention was something entirely for other people. Even then, he had never fully been able to shake the voice of censure in the back of his mind that sounded very much like Admiral Hennessey, telling him he was cuckolding his best friend.

But now, here – together, the three of them standing entwined with his lips on hers and Thomas’ gentle on the back of his neck, making him shudder, that voice fell silent at last.

He didn’t want to think any more, or to second-guess. He just wanted to take what they were offering him and hang the consequences, at least for tonight.

He turned, looking between them, and said with a conviction almost worthy of theirs, “Lead the way.”

Miranda took a candle from the candelabra by the door and led them through the dark, deserted corridors of the house and up the stairs, James’ head spinning: had they dismissed the servants? Had they known? They couldn’t have, there was no way to be sure –

She pulled them through a door into a room lit with a soft glow, a fire burning low in the grate. It was dominated entirely by a vast four-poster bed, at least twice the size of anything James had ever slept in, drapes secured at each of its corners.

The door clicked shut behind him, and immediately he was spun in Miranda’s arms and found his own full of Thomas just as quickly, surging forward to kiss him weak-kneed and light-headed, this time with all the passion that had been carefully restrained just moments before.

James understood, he really did, how he could not have known. The man he was just hours ago would not even have dared _think_ such a thing, for fear of its consequences; and now it was _happening._

Thomas was in his embrace, and was kissing him like a lover.

Thomas was so good and so true, and James wanted to _devour_ him.

They walked him backwards until the edge of the bed hit the backs of his thighs, and he sank down to sit on the edge of the mattress, dragging Thomas with him, their mouths never parting. Thomas’ hands pushed his coat off his shoulders and he let it happen, shrugging it off as quickly as he could just to be touching Thomas again, needing the proof of him under his hands.

He’d lost track of Miranda until she pushed past him to let down the last of the drapes surrounding the bed, the heavy fabric knocking into him. “Inside,” she ordered, holding the curtain open; James threw his coat in the direction of a nearby chair and kicked off his boots at double speed before climbing up onto the mattress, following Thomas inside.

Inside was another world: the light was low, the drapes swinging shut behind Miranda to surround the three of them in burgundy damask, the effect almost womb-like. She clambered almost across James’ lap, pressing a kiss to her husband’s lips then gathering her skirts about her and reclining against the pillows at the headboard, on their far side –

– and James noticed with an awful jolt the way her expression turned in on itself for a moment, distance and pensive; though it passed as soon as it had come, leaving behind a careful blankness that he liked no better.

He stopped Thomas’ hand upon his neck.

“Miranda?” he asked, something catching in his voice that made both of them still. Miranda’s expression now startled, as though she’d thought herself safely beyond the radius of his attentions.

_If she doesn’t want this – for us to –_

He took a breath.

“Are you quite alright?”

She sighed. “You’ve made a powerful enemy tonight, James.” Her gaze was direct and unshrinking. “And as happy as I wish to be for you both… this makes the danger you are in only more acute.”

She may have meant no reproof, but James felt its sting all the same. Recent events had only distracted him from the shame he felt for what he had done, not banished it, and Thomas’ thumb brushing rhythmically over the skin beneath his jaw did little to help the fresh wave of self-loathing that washed over him to think of his ill-considered actions.

He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them again when Thomas brushed a moth-light kiss across his lips.

“What’s done is done,” he declared, his expression kind, entirely lacking the disapproval that James so clearly deserved. “And we cannot turn back the clock, any more than we can deny ourselves happiness out of fear. I know you would not disagree.”

“And you will not even reproach me for what I did?”

For the first time, Thomas looked truly shocked. “Reproach you? You were _magnificent!_ ” He gripped James’ arm with his other hand, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “It was your conviction that gave me hope.” His voice dropped, quiet and low and stoking something dark and hungry deep in the pit of James’ stomach. “Hope that when you were tested, you would follow your heart’s compass above all else. Hope… that you might just be willing to let me love you.”

James had no control any more when it came to these two people, no restraint. The only possible response was to clutch Thomas to him and pour all his remorse and gratefulness into his kiss, until it was all burnt away by the heat surging through his body.

But he couldn’t forget Miranda, sitting behind and to the side of Thomas, not touching; and so he reluctantly disengaged himself from Thomas’ embrace once again, making sure to include them both in his gaze.

“I must confess,” he started carefully, fingers of one hand fidgeting with the golden edging of Thomas’ long waistcoat, “I don’t entirely understand what…”

 _Do they mean – Thomas or_ both _of them – what – how –_

He couldn’t even form the words properly in his mind, let alone give voice to them, the close press of years of convention still stilling his tongue.

Miranda and Thomas shared a look, and it was Miranda who answered:

“I rather thought it was Thomas’ turn to have you.”

James was only left reeling for a moment before Thomas’ hands closed around his, moving them to his buttons. “Help me undress,” he told him, moving his own hands to James’ neck and unwinding his cravat just as surely as his sanity. “I want us to see each other as God intended. I want you to be mine tonight.”

“Yes,” James breathed, “yes.” His thoughts were coming hazily now, drowned out by the desire thrumming beneath his skin, his anticipation building with every touch of skin on skin.

Garments were discarded one by one, and though the temptation to hurry, to see and have everything at once, was near-overwhelming, James called upon every ounce of his self-discipline to make him move as slowly, as deliberately as Thomas, who kept on pausing to press kisses to James’ mouth and jaw, the newly-bared hollow of his throat, kisses that made him near light-headed with arousal.

When Thomas all but threw his shirt off, revealing acres of skin glowing golden in the low light, James realised for the first time that he had never really _seen_ him. He had seen other men’s bodies, of course, but those were fellow sailors. Someone like Thomas… all James had ever seen was him in rolled-up shirtsleeves as they sat up late into the night, nominally working on their proposal but sometimes just talking instead about everything and nothing, until the clock was striking two or three. Thomas gesticulating wildly whenever he felt particularly passionate, James watching his hands and the tendons flexing in his forearms, wondering at the power hinted at therein. What kind of a swordsman he would be. Which of them would triumph, which yield.

The clues were all there, now he knew to look for them. They explained how he had come to this moment, transfixed once again by muscles shifting under skin, secret-soft beneath his fingers and smattered with golden hairs, Thomas’ breath hitching as James’ fingers followed the path of his eyes.

Thomas helped James pull his own shirt over his head, the fabric clearing his eyes only for James to see Thomas’ expression newly hot with lust, something reverent in the way he reached out and touched, as if James’ milky, freckled skin was a work of art. “Remarkable,” he murmured, his caresses leaving trails of heat in their wake.

 _Remarkable_.

In all James’ life, nobody had ever looked at him quite like this, had ever thought he mattered quite so much. It made him want to scoff, made him feel desperately uncertain and overwhelmingly beloved at the same time.

It made him want to consume the man before him, and be consumed by him.

And yet when Thomas reached for the waistband of James’ breeches, it still shocked him – and he found himself frozen, staring at Thomas in confusion, for a moment not entirely understanding what he was doing, or why.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ , these urges inexplicable according to all good sense yet as undeniable to him as God, or his own name. He just… found the whole situation somewhat difficult to credit.

Then Thomas’ face changed, his expression folding in on itself, in badly-concealed hurt – and in a flash of clarity, James realised why he was doing this. Despite the clear danger it put them all in, all the misgivings he was sure he would have if he actually stopped and thought.

Until today, he could not have imagined their friendship would ever take this course. He could not have imagined a version of himself who would even kiss Thomas, let alone touch him intimately, who would acknowledge those feelings that had lain just beneath his surface perhaps even for months. He could have lived his whole life in ignorance and perhaps never mourned the lack of it, if Thomas had not known better, and dared to show him.

But to have seen the way Thomas looked at him, with nothing but love in his eyes – as if James could be so precious, to _anyone_ – and then to lose that?

James’ body made the choice for him: he reached for Thomas’ buttons as their mouths crashed together once more, hard, imperfect and a little desperate. They shifted up onto their knees, James’ hand pushing against the hardness in Thomas’ breeches quite by accident – and that might have been enough to make him hesitate anew were it not for Thomas’ gasp of breath against his lips, which had him smile and then do it again, this time thoroughly deliberate.

“James.” Miranda broke through his haze of desire once again, and he broke reluctantly away from Thomas to see her patting her skirts, feeling vaguely guilty for his inattention.

“Lay your head in my lap.”

He looked instinctively to Thomas, who nodded his approval, before moving over to her and sinking obediently down to the mattress, revelling in the feeling of cool silk against his cheek, the scent of her familiar perfume. One of her hands took his, small and slightly cool; the other splayed possessively over his breastbone.

Thomas’ hand joined hers just moments later, securing it in place, James’ heart beating a fierce tattoo beneath their touch.

“Now, she said, as if it were so simple, “Let my husband make love to you.”

James had always been sure. Driven, determined. He’d always set his sights on more than what he was offered and fought until he succeeded – from ship’s boy to midshipman to lieutenant before he was thirty, proving to Admiral Hennessey that his faith in the mere son of a carpenter’s mate had not been misplaced. He’d never truly doubted, certainly never felt this elating, terrifying mix of doubt inextricably bound up with _want…_ never wondered if he were about to change himself irrevocably.

He’d never _loved_ before, not like this, and had certainly never been loved.

He already knew the answer:

They would _make_ it that simple.

“Yes,” he replied, letting go at last of that final ounce of control, letting them both see his love and fear and naked need. “ _Please._ Touch me.”

Even through the thick fabric of his breeches, James couldn’t have imagined the way Thomas’ hand on him made him feel, like he’d been winded and set alight all at once. He was rock-hard and aching within moments, biting his lip to keep him from moaning out loud, gripping Miranda’s hand for dear life.

“Darling James.” Miranda’s hand smoothed his hair off his forehead; he wondered if he felt as hot to her as he did inside his skin. “Do you have any idea how long he’s been waiting?

“Beg pardon?” James managed, though the pressure of Thomas’ fingers at the buttons of his breeches – and everywhere his buttons weren’t besides – was distracting to say the least.

“When you and I _almost_ went to view the Greys’ Egyptian artefacts all those months ago, Thomas didn’t just know I’d planned to seduce you. He positively approved.” James looked up into her face, saw her dark eyes dancing with pleasure. “He knew that that evening, I would tell him _everything_.”

Her stress on the final word was light, but it was enough, and for a moment James didn’t know where to look. To imagine them in private – abed – discussing _him_ –

Thomas chuckled, drawing James’ attention back to him. “And to think I thought of you so often as the worldlier one,” he quipped, before tapping at James’ hipbone. “Raise your hips for me?”

James obediently planted his feet and pushed his hips up off the mattress, sucking in a breath as Thomas peeled off his breeches entirely, resisting the sudden urge to cover himself as the undeniable evidence of his desire was laid bare to both of them.

It seemed like time had slowed as he watched Thomas reach out and run his index finger low down James’ belly, a mere inch from his rock-hard cock, James unable to help the way it twitched under his gaze. “Exquisite,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he moved forward and on top of James, bracing himself over his body – _he’s naked too, when did that happen? –_ and when he wrapped his hand around him, James half-thought he would finish there and then, gritting his teeth against the wave of heat flooding his body.

He reached down between their bodies, and they began to move together, falling into an imperfect rhythm, pushing over and over into each other’s fists, breathing each other’s breath.

He could never have imagined this. Not in a fever dream, not in his wildest flights of fancy. Thomas’ hands – his eyes – his warmth – his breath –

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, let himself gasp and groan in pleasure; let it consume him, let Thomas take him over the edge and kiss him through it, groaning his own release against James’ lips just moments later.

With a huff of expelled breath Thomas collapsed half-on top of him, taking James’ spend-sticky hand in his and kissing him slowly, gently back to shore.

As he came back to himself James realised the strength of his grip on Miranda’s hand and loosened it, running his thumb over her knuckles in apology. He opened his eyes as Thomas shifted, pushing himself fully up on one arm to kiss her on the lips – a brief, simple kiss that spoke of honest affection, and was utterly devoid of the kind of passion he and James had just shared.

At once, James understood much more than he had – and found himself wondering just how many of Miranda Hamilton’s infamous affairs had actually not been hers at all.

How many of them had been both hers and her husband’s; and what exactly _he_ was to her.

Thomas brushed a loose strand of hair off James’ forehead, drawing his attention once more. “I’ll get something to clean us up,” he told him, his grin almost boyish as he dropped one more lingering kiss on James’ lips before letting go his hand and rolling off him, disappearing through the drapes.

Leaving James alone with Miranda – and he immediately pushed himself up out of her lap and kissed her, because kissing her was easier than looking at her and seeing what she thought of him now.

For a few moments she allowed it, leaning in and putting one hand on his bare thigh, the other on the back of his neck; and then she pulled back, her hand wrapping around his queue and holding him in place when he tried to follow.

He had so many questions, and didn’t dare give voice to any of them – was she happy? Had she got what she wanted? Had this always been the plan?

Had she drawn him in for her husband’s sake or her own, and what would happen now?

He couldn’t read her expression; and just as she opened her mouth to speak her eyes cut sideways, and James followed her gaze to see Thomas pulling the drapes aside.

James couldn’t help tensing, all too conscious of the intimacy of their position, and suddenly unsure; but the look that husband and wife gave each other was fond, even a little amused, and Miranda leaned in once more and kissed him again, quite deliberately.

“I’d demand more of you, my dear Lieutenant,” she quipped, before her expression turned suddenly serious, “but I’m afraid reality intrudes. If this is the course we’re taking –” she addressed Thomas now, who was taking the wet cloth he held to James’ stomach – “then time is of the essence. In short, we need to get to our friends before your father does.”

Thomas nodded. “I’ll have messengers dispatched as soon as we’re all dressed.” He lifted his head to smile openly at James. “I’m only sorry I’ll have to wait a few more hours to take you in my arms again. A few minutes already seems too long without you.”

“Please. I have no need of flattery,” James protested, sure his discomfort was all too plain on his face. He’d never quite learned to take a compliment, and certainly not from someone like Thomas.

“And you insult me by claiming I flatter,” Thomas parried, not looking in the least insulted.

“Come on, James. You should know by now that you can’t win when he’s like this. Give in, and save us all the trouble.” Miranda looked full well as though she was enjoying this the most of all, and James couldn’t help smiling to realise just how thoroughly they had him beaten, and just how much it meant that they cared enough to do so.

Thomas reached out and took James’ hand in his. “Please. I have been silent as to my love for you for long enough. If I cannot give voice to it here then I will surely go mad.” When James didn’t immediately reply, he squeezed his fingers before letting go, his particular smile saying that he understood James wasn’t ready to give his feelings voice just yet. “But we have delayed long enough.”

“You two needed to get it out of your systems. You would have been impossible otherwise,” Miranda said lightly; James surprised himself by chuckling. “But for my part, I think a little more anticipation will only enhance the pleasure.”

She was looking straight at James, the way they looked at each other when they were alone – when she told him plainly to fuck her, where she wanted him and how – as though Thomas were not there at all; but just perhaps, James realised, it had been the intention all along that he would be. That they had both been waiting for him, in their different ways.

With all he now knew, he could hardly stand the idea of going back to being Lieutenant McGraw again, even though he knew just how crucial it was. To have any hope of salvaging their position he’d have to be twice as careful and twice as judicious, wear that carefully curated face again even when his heart felt like bursting from his chest with the strain of it.

It was funny, the way he cared about being the Lieutenant less and less. It seemed Miranda had been right after all.

“I look forward to it,” he replied, giving both of them a final kiss. “But for now. Clothes?”

“Clothes,” Thomas agreed – with a visible reluctance that made James smile, and kiss him again, before gesturing towards the small gap Thomas had left in the drapes, the light of the room beyond shining through.

“Lead the way?”


End file.
